[PS & GV #6] Death on Demand

by Jim Kelly

  ‘These deaths are neither violent, unnatural or unexpected. In a profound sense of the word I’d say, from the documentation, that all the patients died a natural death, given their conditions. Nothing, on the face of it, is suspicious at all.

  ‘I’ve got a bit of software which simply tracks data and searches out patterns – repetitions basically, although it’s a bit more sophisticated than that. For example, it might point up a relationship between the profession of the deceased and a certain medical condition, say asbestosis and building contractors. Or between respiratory disease and a particular postcode, an area along the bypass, for example. You see? Useful for my work, which is tracking the medical condition of the poor, especially the homeless.

  ‘The postcode analysis is particularly illuminating when you’re looking at big cities, I don’t know, say Dublin, or Manchester, or London. You’d never think it but a lot of illness has a geographical basis, a spatial dimension; that’s interesting to me, you see. That’s the heart of it. We love patterns, don’t we, Shaw, being logical men, and the patterns within the patterns.’

  He put a printout of a GPS map of Lynn on the table, upon which were six stars, in a cluster.

  ‘This is the pattern I wanted you to see.’

  ‘This is the old Parkwood Springs estate. Frankly, I’m poleaxed anyone still lives there, I thought the place was in ruins. But you can see here all six of the stars, and each is the address of one of Dr Roy’s deceased patients. All are within an area of less than half a square mile.’

  Furey studied the GPS map. ‘Could this pattern be the result of chance? Maybe. It’s a rundown part of town, full of the elderly and infirm. Dr Gokak is a GP for the local practice.

  ‘But you see Shaw, the point is, this is not the only pattern.’

  Furey’s cheeks had flushed redder and he gripped the six certificates roughly in his hand.

  ‘As well as listing the home addresses of the deceased, and their causes of death, these certificates stipulate the place of death. In each case, Shaw, in each case – it is listed as 32 Hartington Street, the home address of Beatty Hood, the first of the six to die. Now that, DI Shaw, is very, very, odd.’

  Shaw thought of the Lister Tunnel, the stale breath of it, seeping out into the rest of town.

  ‘And this pattern went unnoticed?’

  ‘Yes, well – unnoticed until now. But yes, fundamentally. Dr Roy was perfectly entitled to sign the death certificates, and they appear entirely valid. I only found the correlation when alerted to the possibility that there might be a pattern in the certificates signed by Dr Roy.’

  ‘It’s fifteen years since Harold Shipman, Britain’s most prolific serial killer, murdered fifteen of his patients, and you’re saying a doctor can still just sign death certificates and the coroner isn’t involved at all – or anyone else?’

  Furey held up both hands. ‘I’ve no idea what’s happened here, Shaw. I point the finger at no man. Let’s give Dr Roy the benefit of the doubt, shall we? But I concede he would have questions to answer, if he wasn’t on a mortuary slab. Most of the legal changes proposed after Shipman have been kicked into the long grass – a scandal, yes, but there it is.

  ‘On the other hand, there have been changes – profound changes, to procedure. The NHS looks for clusters too. But I’d have to admit that a determined doctor could still avoid detection, especially if they had accomplices within the system – either complicit directly, or just willing to turn a blind eye to breaking bureaucratic procedure. And after all, Shaw, the health service is under huge strain. Shortcuts save money, time – frankly, even lives. We’re all human.’

  ‘What about simple data collection? Surely this pattern just screams at you?’

  ‘Certificates end up stored at the General Register Office, at Stockport. It’s a paper-based system, you see, so unless data is input specifically such patterns do not appear. Also, data analysis tends to concentrate on other aspects of the certificate, not the place of death, which is often a hospital, or a home.’

  Furey drained his glass. ‘And there’s one more pattern. All six were buried, Shaw. That’s odd in itself these days. But the crucial thing is that post-Shipman one of the processes that has been tightened up is that concerning cremation. You can see why. No body, no evidence, no possible way of finding out what really happened. Burials, we can just dig them up. So you see, if someone wanted to subvert the system, they’d favour the graveyard. Fewer questions, and no extra awkward forms to complete.’

  Furey led the way out on to the landing.

  Shaw, pausing, looked down the elegant circular stairwell. ‘You’re saying that, according to these certificates, six people died in this one house – 32 Hartington Street – in eleven months?’

  ‘Correct. As the Americans like to say, Shaw: go figure. And that may not be the end of it. I tracked these six down by searching for Dr Roy’s name on certificates where the address of the deceased is local. He may have signed others. And note this: he may have signed others, but the place of death might still be this one house. Do you see? This shows you the major flaw in the system, Shaw. We trust doctors too much. We defer. We even let them insist they have a title beyond plain mister. And we’re not going to reform the system because money’s short. That’s the root of it, Shaw. Always is.’

  They were on the doorstep a minute later, the light overhead throwing their silhouettes down the path. Dr Furey gave Shaw copies of the six death certificates.

  The doctor produced a slightly battered silver cigarette case, took one out, and let the door close gently to behind him, but not so far that the lock clicked.

  ‘Any thoughts?’ asked Shaw.

  ‘I can see no possible medical explanation. That’s as far as I go. I’ll leave speculation on Dr Roy’s motives to CID. Shipman killed himself, Shaw, and he never told us why he killed his patients. Money, was it? Or treasures filched – paintings and jewellery? Or did he want to play God, or stop the pain; or did he just think his victims were in his way, bureaucratic nuisances, clogging up his surgery. We’ll not know now, Shaw.’

  The evening was so still that when he lit the cigarette the wisp of sulphur hung in the air, curling round the lighter and his slightly thick fingers.

  Shaw lingered too, looking up at the stars turning over the cemetery.

  ‘And if there’s no reason?’ he asked. ‘No logic behind the pattern?’

  ‘You’ll have not done your job, Inspector. Or the world’s full of dark chaos. One of the two.’

  THIRTY-THREE

  Barbecue flames flickered like Bedouin camp fires along the beach as Shaw ran the mile to Surf!. The chosen path, up through the dunes, sucked the energy from his legs as his feet sank into the sand. Cold sand, chilled sand, the sun long set, leaving sharp stars in a yet moonless sky. Ahead he could see the fire pit outside the bar, the bright yellow glow of the logs, sparks rising in clouds as the sea breeze blew them into life with an intermittent breath. Lena, grill chef for the evening, stood at the gleaming aluminium gas range flipping venison burgers, prawn and mackerel, twisting kebabs of peppers, shallots and mushroom.

  Shaw, kissing her on the back of the neck, felt the heat of her skin, as if she’d absorbed the sun’s rays and was re-radiating them as the night air cooled. He ordered a burger with couscous and sat eating with Fran, checking through a page of Spanish vocabulary for a school test. The heat of the fire pit was intense and Surf!’s clientele, about thirty strong, edged closer as the wind picked up, making Shaw shiver in his T-shirt and shorts. By the time the moon rose, long past its super phase, he had Fran in a gentle hug, looking out to sea.

  Lena called her daughter in for bed and Shaw took the opportunity to spread Dr Furey’s GPS map of Parkwood Springs out on the picnic tabletop, then rang Valentine on his mobile.

  ‘Peter.’ Valentine managed to make the single word sound exhausted. Then Shaw heard footsteps, a door squealing on unoiled hinges.

  ‘Working late?’

  Th
e couple on the next table to Shaw pulled a bottle of Prosecco from an ice bucket and popped the cork.

  ‘Thought I’d make a few calls. Copon’s done a runner. Marsh House says he missed his morning shift – first time in five years. Control room has put out an alert. Girlfriend says he’s gone AWOL.’

  There was a pause and Shaw could hear Valentine’s laboured breathing as he climbed the steps at St James’ towards the CID suite on the fourth floor.

  ‘There’s a lift, George.’

  ‘Not tonight there isn’t, Peter. Out of order.’

  Silence on the phone and Shaw imagined him resting on the landing.

  ‘Think Copon’s our man?’ asked Valentine.

  ‘Yes. I do. Is he our only man? That’s the question.’

  ‘Motive?’

  Shaw gave his DS a brief summary of his interview with Dr Furey.

  ‘You think Roy killed them? Why? Money? Mercy?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Shaw. ‘But why bring them all to the one house? Why do they all live on the Springs? And you saw Ruby Bright, George. Not much mercy there. Dr Roy was young, gifted, driven. I know doctors help people on their way – in the final hours, but this is something very different. This is organized, cold and brutal. So perhaps it is money. And Irene Coldshaw – what drove her out of Marsh House?’

  Given Valentine’s penchant for late-night wandering he was not surprised when his DS volunteered to check out the five addresses on the Springs.

  ‘And George …’

  ‘Peter.’

  ‘Don’t forget to talk to Jan. Make the time. I know it’s your decision, to go for the op or tough it out, but it’s her life too, right? You got a date yet?’

  He’d turned his back on the sea, waiting for a reply, but the line went dead.

  By the time Lena had ferried out his coffee he had his laptop open, the screen lit, the broadband signal flowing in via Surf!’s AirPort connection – password SUNSETSTRIP.

  Lena sat on the end of the bench, long legs outstretched, bare feet insinuated into the sand.

  ‘What yer doing, copper?’

  Shaw hesitated, but Lena insisted. ‘Tell me.’

  Leo, her business partner, arrived with two glasses of chilled white wine and set them down. ‘Compliments of the house,’ he said, then fled.

  ‘It’s work,’ said Shaw, shaking his head. ‘Sorry.’ It was their most jealously guarded house rule, to avoid talking shop after dark. But it wasn’t a total ban. Shaw’s father had never discussed the police, either generically or in terms of individual cases, and the result had been his son’s burning ambition to find out what he’d been shielded from, what exactly lay beyond the wall of silence. Shaw tried hard not to blot out the job, merely to reduce its allure by making sure Lena and Fran knew the facts: he’d summarize his cases, leaving out the low-life detail, the gritty forensics, the corrosive motives. Sometimes he felt detectives deliberately created a mystery out of their working lives, a half-glimpsed fantasy much more alluring than the real routine.

  Lena had a good brain, a forensic logic, a talent for objectivity. Over the years she’d provided countless, subtle insights, which would have been beyond Shaw.

  One aspect of the case which was disturbing Shaw was Beatty Hood’s gravestone. He told Lena what he’d found, the curious coincidence of birthday and wedding days, and for want of a better term, death days. Earlier, he’d asked Mark Birley to track down some family background.

  ‘I thought it was all a bit weird,’ said Shaw. ‘Turns out weird is just the tip of the iceberg.’

  He swivelled the laptop round so that Lena could see a homepage, in livid blue and red, with the banner heading: HOOD DAY.

  ‘This webpage appears to be some kind of online home for the family,’ he said, bringing his legs up, perching higher on the bench. ‘And by family I mean the wider clan, if you like. Thousands of them.’

  He drilled down into the site until he found a page showing a black-and-white archive photograph.

  ‘Turns out this is all about these two …’

  The portrait would have been taken in the early years of the twentieth century. A man and woman, both in the rather stiff clothes of wealthy settlers, sat in wooden captain’s chairs on a verandah, sub-tropical fronds intruding. The woman held a parasol despite being depicted in the shade, and the man held a gun across his lap.

  ‘To cut a long story short these two were born on the same day – September the nineteenth 1875. They decided, presumably, to marry on that day, in 1900. Things get sinister, or charming, depending on your point of view, on September the nineteenth 1944, when they both died on the same day, just two hours apart, according to the family history.

  ‘Since then their descendants have celebrated family events on Hood Day. All these emails and posts are from the family, mostly sent around the day itself … take a look.’

  #HoodDay Yeah! Findlay Garcia born two minutes after midnight. We made it, kidda. Another one for the record book.

  #HoodDay Married today in the Special Memory Chapel, Las Vegas. Go you Hoods! Telling no secrets but we might be back to tell you even more amazing news next year.

  ‘And this,’ he said, ‘from last year.’

  #Livia Jane McCartney, nee Hood, died today, on her day. On our day. She knew that God had smiled on her and she rests in peace. Obit online at Adelaide IN-DAILY.

  The page was decorated, there was no other word for it. Bells, flowers, storks, doves of peace, all pulsing, a line of fairy lights twinkling.

  ‘Celebratory is the word,’ said Shaw.

  ‘Or gross, that’s another word,’ said Lena. ‘This is an unhealthy obsession. I can see that getting married on the day might be cool. Being born on the day is, I guess, something you could aim for if you were the parents. Even that’s a bit …’ She rolled her shoulders as if a cold drip of icy rain had fallen down her spine. ‘Controlling. But dying on the day. Imagine what that’s like if the family’s all downstairs and you’re the one on the death bed. Like you wake up and think – it’s the day. I really ought to go.’

  She drew a circle round the wine glass, tracing her finger through the condensation, then put it down next to Dr Furey’s GPS map of Lynn. ‘And this?’

  Covering his eyes, Shaw yawned, then disentangled himself from the bench to put another log in the fire pit.

  ‘Tell me,’ said Lena. ‘It looks like a puzzle.’

  Shaw spread the map flat with his hand, the wedding ring catching the firelight. Dealing swiftly with the death of Dr Roy, he summarized Furey’s documentation.

  ‘We have six deaths, starting with Beatty Hood’s, and these are the home addresses of the dead. In each case the death certificate is signed by Dr Roy – the place of death being the same in each, 32 Hartington Street. We know that our murder victim, Ruby Bright, thought Hood was murdered. Now Dr Roy is dead. A puzzle? You said it.’

  Shaw stared at the six red dots on the street plan.

  Lena sipped her wine. Since opening Surf! up after dark for drinks she’d been working too hard and she’d lost a few pounds, which made her face – normally an array of curves – less sinuous and slightly harder, as if the skin was revealing the bone structure beneath. Her eyes, in contrast, had taken on a sparkle which had once been intermittent. They shone now, studying the street plan of Parkwood Springs.

  ‘You know me and maths …’ she said.

  One of the reasons she’d gone into partnership with Leo D’Asti was that his skill set – banking, accounting, enterprise – had neatly plugged her own fear of numbers. And it was a fear, or a kind of phobia, rather than innumeracy. It was as if the numbers danced before her eyes, in a statistical form of dyslexia.

  ‘But …’ she said, splaying her hand out over the map. ‘Randomness: it’s the absence of a pattern. I look at this and I see a pattern in the fact that there’s no pattern. If you said to Fran sprinkle six red dots on the map evenly, they’d look like that. So randomness can betray an underlying logic, right?
These dots are all on different streets, they’re all mid-terrace, they’re all “middling”, except there’s just one on a corner, as if that proves they’re random. That’s what I see, Peter, but then I’m not a mathematician.’

  Shaw’s phone rang, Valentine came up on the screen and he put his voice on speaker.

  ‘Peter, I’m outside one of those addresses on the Springs. You need to see this.’

  THIRTY-FOUR

  The house was gone: mid-terrace, a stone step, then a gap like a rotten tooth, the space held open by two wooden beams which, at an angle, supported the dividing walls on either side, protecting the neighbouring properties from tumbling in on the cavity left behind. To the right was a boarded up house with a chalk 21 on the door, while to the left 25 still had its numerals, although one of the nails in the 5 had rusted free, so that the number hung upside down.

  ‘This is twenty-three, Salisbury Street,’ read Valentine from his notebook. ‘According to you the death certificate of Roland True, aged forty-three, stipulated this house as his home. Signed by Dr Gokak Roy. But Mr Robert ‘Bobbie’ Pauley – number eighteen – where the light is …’

  Valentine pointed down the street, unlit except for a single lamppost, to a rectangle of light marking a downstairs window.

  ‘He’s been here since 1953. So he remembers the night this house blew up, in 1986, due to a fractured gas main. Christmas was early that year for glaziers, he reckons. Took out every window on the Springs. It’s been a pile of rubble for nearly forty years.’